


Asleeps in Some Bloods

by Calliopinot



Category: Metalocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2019-01-08 22:43:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12263571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calliopinot/pseuds/Calliopinot
Summary: All Toki ever wanted was a chance to shine.





	Asleeps in Some Bloods

**Author's Note:**

> My first legit fic AND my first post on AO3! So go easy on me. 
> 
> Don't read if you like everyone staying alive, or a Toki who amn'ts crazy.

Skwisgaar was bored.

Recording was done; all that remained was for the sessions to be mastered, and if he had any interest in _reducing_ his boredom, he planned to stay far away from the mixing lab while that went on.

Ordinarily situations like these called for sluts or socializing, but he burned through half a dozen women last night, and a few faceless more held no real appeal. Nathan and Pickles had dipped out to a bar in advance of their worldwide booze cruise, and Murderface was, well, Murderface. 

_Guess I’ll go find Toki_.

Much as he hated to admit it, Skwisgaar liked palling around with Toki. Pigeonholed as they were as the two oddball Scandinavians, Skwisgaar and Toki found themselves alone together frequently, at first by exclusion and eventually by choice. They knew things about each other no one else did and viewed the world through a unique, shared lens. And if he was honest, Skwisgaar craved the ego boost he enjoyed from keeping company with an inferior musician who happened to worship the very air he breathed.

Their relationship was volatile, but the best ones always were.

Toki wasn’t in any of his usual hangouts – the arcade was empty, no acrid plastic snack boxes were melting on the stove, half-built model plane sat, untouched, on the desk in his hovel of a bedroom.

Skwisgaar’s feet took him in the direction of the recording room. Frustrated at having to go to such lengths for company and annoyed at himself for needing it, he subconsciously sought out the only true friend he ever had in the world.

As he neared the room, fingers itching for a fretboard, he was surprised to hear one of the new tracks echoing down the hallway. Were they mixing in here? That didn’t make sense; Knubbler should be down in the basement with the scientists and their water wizardry. The song stopped and restarted, his solo cutting through louder and brighter and cleaner and more beautifully than it had before.

Something’s not right.

Skwisgaar popped the door a crack and peeked in. He didn’t know why he was being so coy; whoever was fucking around with his hard work deserved to be caught and flogged.

What he saw was much worse than some willful Gear taking liberties with his instruments.

There Toki stood, behind the glass window, Explorer in hand. Red lights flashed on the board outside as he shredded through riff after riff – Skwisgaar’s riffs, notes and bars Skwisgaar wrote and Skwisgaar recorded because Skwisgaar is the lead guitarist –

“What de fucks ams dis?!” He bellowed in his heavy baritone, forgetting in his shock and wrath that the booth was soundproof. Still, his ministrations caught Toki’s eye, which locked on his for a second before returning to the fretboard, utterly unfazed.

“Don’ts touch dat.” He didn’t need to look up again to know Skwisgaar was fixing to mash his hands into every button and dial on the recording panel.

Skwisgaar watched Toki tie a bow on the end of the current song, completely nonplussed. His junior – the _rhythm_ guitarist – tapped something on the ground out of sight, and the opening salvo to another new recording blared in earnest.

Toki was ignoring him, and not only that, he was giving him orders, and not only _that_ , he was screwing with _his_ tracks –

“What de fucks ams dis?!” Skwisgaar repeated, slamming open the door to the booth. “You records over all _my_ solos?!”

Toki patiently tapped the assembly of pedals again and removed his headphones, finally acknowledging the other man’s presence.

“Nots alls. Just de ones what ams actuallies good.” He smirked. The smug, savage smirk of which he’d been recipient more times than he could count.

“The fucks ams that supposed to means?”

“Oh, you knows.” Toki idly adjusted the gain on his guitar. _Skwisgaar’s_ guitar. “Dere ams a differensk between beings de fastest guitarist in de world and de _best_ guitarist in de world, Skwisgaar.”

The Swede felt the blood rising under his collar, tiny pinpricks of rage sweat breaking out under his arms. “You tells to me exackly what ams goings ons here or I strings dat guitar in yous hands wit' yous guts.”

Toki’s laugh contained no joy.

“You ams such a self-centered dick, Skwisgaar. But you ams also fuckings ignorant.” He made a show of massaging and stretching his hands, as though they’d been doing days upon day of yeoman’s work. 

“You t’inks you ams re-recordings alls Toki's parts? Wells, I let’s you t’inks dat, den I comes in here wit’out any of yous assholes harassings me and re-re-records dem.” He indicated the Flying V propped, uncharacteristically professionally, on a stand in the corner. “And den I records over de solos what’s I likes best. De ones dat don’ts just sounds like you’s racing a cuckoos clock, ha ha.”

“Fucks you Toki! Fuckings Norsky reindeer fucker!” Anger evidently struck him dumb.

“Look, Skwisgaar, ams notings you can does about it. Dese recordings—” his foot gestured to the group of modded pedals that lined the wall of the booth— “go straight downs to de mixing room. Toki’s guitars ams what’s goes on de water records and Toki's guitars ams why’s all de Dethklok groupies wants to suck your di—”

The punch was clumsy and uncoordinated, rather the opposite of his normal movements. It was nothing for Toki to grab his arm in the air and twist, spinning Skwisgaar on his heel. In the brief moment he held the Swede’s back to his chest, he was taken aback by how slight the man was. A presence so dominant – and domineering – in his life ought to have mass to match.

He decided to spare Skwisgaar the fight he clearly desired.

“Gets out of here, Skwisgaar. We talks about dis laters, if you wants. Afters I ams dones workin on de album and you’s done fuckins all dems fat old ladies.” Another mirthless laugh, and the Swede realized he was already done. 

“Nej, Tokis. We nots talks laters.” He rubbed at the abused flesh Toki’s firm grip had reddened. “You ams gutter trash, you ams backwoods Norsky fuckings garbage and you ain’ts gonna be my charities case no more."

His tone impassive yet cutting, Skwisgaar narrowed his eyes at the young Norwegian. "You don’ts deserve none of dis. You deserves beings whipped and chained and forgottens in a cave—”

The axe sliced through the air. What it felled was taller than a tree.

Skwisgaar drifted in the air for a moment. His wide eyes found Toki’s before they found nothing at all; such coldness therein, befitting the frosty blue irises he would never see again.

Toki was amused for a moment at the contrast between blood and blonde. _It’s like ketchup and mustard_. He chuckled to himself, shouldering the soiled Explorer, and nudged a lifeless leg out of the way of his pedals.

 

***

 

“Anybody seen Skwisgaar?”

The band had convened for its nightly soak, and Nathan Explosion wondered aloud where his lead guitarist was.

Toki stepped into the hot tub, wearing a serene expression and a gleaming white Flying V slung across his shoulder.

“Uhh… Toki?” Pickles was the first to break the oddly terrifying silence.

“Yeah, pal?”

“You um… You seen Skwisgaar?”

“Oh yeah! He ams down in de recordin’s room.” Relief flicked across the faces of his bandmates. It was short-lived.

“Lazy fuck, he ams asleeps in some bloods. Moidaface, passes me a beer?”


End file.
